


Here With Me

by ImNeitherNor



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-20
Updated: 2019-12-20
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:41:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21878017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImNeitherNor/pseuds/ImNeitherNor
Summary: The gang has noticed that both Steve and Billy have fallen apart after the last battle. Determined to get them out of their ruts, they devise a plan to pull Billy out of his room and Steve out of his loneliness. It goes better than they hoped.
Relationships: Billy Hargrove/Steve Harrington, Steve Harrington/Billy Hargrove
Comments: 23
Kudos: 341
Collections: Harringrove Holiday Exchange 2019





	Here With Me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [gothyringwald](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gothyringwald/gifts).

> For @gothyringwald.
> 
> This got away from me, but I hope you love it.

Here With Me

“He hasn’t come out of his room,” Max yanks the wrapper off of the Bazooka gum Lucas tosses her from across the room, “and he listens to _ Neil_. He doesn’t even fight anymore. He barely talks.”

“Are you actually _ complaining _ about--_ow_\--” Lucas grimaces as Eleven sucker punches him in the arm, “I mean. Oh. How sad. What should we _ do_?”

“Get _ bent,_” Max scowls, “he almost _ died,_ you noid--”

“Did you seriously just call me--”

“What’s a _ noid_?” El asks.

“Guys! The asshole isn’t the only one!” Dustin points out grudgingly from the floor and then dodges Max’s foot as she kicks at him. “Hey! I’m not joking! Steve acts like his life is over. He drives us around but he isn’t _ Steve,_ you know?”

Max exhales and pops the piece of gum into her mouth. After a couple of thoughtful chews, she drags her eyes to Eleven. When they meet, she watches a slow grin pull at Eleven's lips. Max raises both of her eyebrows. She knows Eleven well enough to already approve of whatever is going on in her head.

“I,” Eleven states righteously, her eyes beginning to twinkle with the plan she’s clearly designing in her head, “have an idea.” 

~*~

Max finds herself leaning against the frame of the doorway to Billy’s room. She has her arms crossed over her chest, her eyebrows pinched as she watches Billy read on his bed. The doctor had forbidden any sort of workout regiment, and it had taken its toll on Billy’s muscles. It isn’t that he looks bad, necessarily, but she can always tell he’s uncomfortable in his own skin.

It’s easy, with the hoodies and jeans and covering every available inch of skin. She hasn’t seen him in anything less than that since the hospital, and she isn’t stupid. Billy’s pride and joy was the way he looked, and his Camaro--and both of them were trashed on the same night, so she watches and thinks about Eleven’s plan and knows Billy won’t kick her out while she thinks. He barely registers anyone’s presence anymore, his nose perpetually buried in books.

“We’re doing Secret Santa,” Max announces into the room, “and we have odd numbers, so, like, we need an extra? And I volunteered you. We’re drawing today at Steve’s and you gotta take me there, anyway.” 

Billy doesn’t look up, but she sees the way his mouth thins.

“C’_mon_, Billy. It’s not like you’re doing anything else,” Max steps into the room. It doesn’t smell like cigarettes anymore--another thing the doctor stressed was the irreparable damage to Billy’s lungs. At first, Billy said fuck it and smoked, anyway. The coughing fits mixed with blood and difficulty breathing afterward forced him to stop. She eyes the bag of Tootsie Pops at the side of his bed. 

“Draw for me,” Billy replies, his voice low and scratchy from disuse.

“You are literally _ no fun_,” but Max knows she’s lucky Billy is even agreeing to it, so she doesn’t push or prod. 

~*~

“Your parents aren’t even coming _ home _ for Christmas!” Dustin exclaims in exasperation, hands thrust up above his head as he follows Steve into his empty house. “Secret Santa would be awesome--”

“And you want to host the gift giving _ here,_” Steve interrupts and Dustin sighs, like his thought process is so obvious that anyone could follow his brain pattern.

“_Yeah_? Duh. It’ll be all of us,” and conveniently leaves out the fact that Billy Hargrove will probably be there too, “and you can’t _ sulk _ around.” He plants his hands on his hips as Steve sets the groceries onto the counter.

Steve looks exhausted. He doesn’t actually sleep, Dustin thinks. The half circles under his eyes give it away, but Steve still carts them around and entertains most of their awful ideas. He watches Steve scrub at his eyes and pinch his nose.

“You’re not even a parent,” Dustin points out, “but you do what my mom does. And Hopper. And _ Joyce-_-”

“Okay! Fine! Christ, I get it. Yeah, we can have it here. I’ll do it. _ Fu--_godda--_ugh _,” Steve drops his hands from his face and shoots Dustin a look.

“Language,” Dustin chastizes and ducks away as Steve throws a dish towel at him.

Still, Dustin knows he won. He just hopes Max did, too.

~*~

The drawing of names is planned out by Lucas, who says that their best bet is to have Billy’s name on _ all _ of the cards, draw their own, and have Steve draw the last one. Which, of course, will be Billy’s name. It’s a foolproof plan, Lucas claims, and it basically goes that route until Steve unravels the paper and looks at it like he wants to set it on fire. He opens his mouth and closes it like a fish, but because it’s Secret Santa, he doesn’t say anything. 

“So, rules,” Dustin starts.

“Rules?” Steve asks, his paper held tightly in one fist. “How are there rules to Secret Santa?”

“Oh my god, just _ listen,_” Dustin waves his hat about, “we’re gonna exchange gifts on December twenty third, but we’ll do smaller exchanges until the biggest one. So, small stuff, right? Three small gifts and one big one.”

“And we’re doing that here,” Steve echoes and Dustin nods.

Max can see Steve’s mind working. He chews on his lower lip or picks on his jeans whenever he’s overthinking something, and he’s doing both. 

“So, we meet here every day and have all the gifts in the center. See? Really easy,” Dustin shrugs and Eleven nods with a certainty Steve doesn’t seem to feel.

“Great,” Steve grumbles, “fantastic.”

~*~

“Billy!” Max raps at the door and then pushes it open, “I have your person. I didn’t peak, _ promise._”

He doesn’t look up from his book, so Max flicks the folded piece of paper onto his bed.

“Good luck, butthead,” Max flips Billy off and ducks out of the room before she can see his response as he unfolds the small slip of paper.

~*~

The First Exchange

Steve’s house smells like sugar cookies and hot cocoa. It leaves a strange warmth in the pit of his stomach, even if he’s nervous about the exchange. Having the gang over is one thing. Having the gang _ and _ Billy Hargrove over? He hasn’t actually sat down with the guy since the hospital, and even then, he didn’t stick around. It wasn’t out of dislike for Billy. He remembers sitting next to the hospital bed and watching Billy’s chest rise and fall, stutter, like he wasn’t going to be able to take the next breath. There were times where Steve could tell Billy was having nightmares and there wasn’t a damned thing he could do about it. Frustration about being useless all over again made him leave--like Billy was better off without Steve sitting and watching him struggle through the process of healing after his body was ripped apart by a monster from another dimension.

Billy wiped out a third of Hawkins. Not Billy, Steve reminds himself as he stirs the hot cocoa in the pot. The Mindflayer. It took a third of Hawkins and the government somehow covered it up as a catastrophic fire at the mall. It was quarantined for a good chunk of time afterward, just about as long as Billy was in the hospital. He remembers when Billy was finally released. Max was enthusiastic about it, if a little apprehensive. 

She had been worried about Billy being an asshole after he came home, but Steve hasn’t heard a word about it. In fact, Billy’s name never really comes up in any of the conversations or the party’s discussions. It’s almost like he had actually died at the mall, like he’s just a ghost trailing around to remind them of what happened and to keep them on their toes.

“Steve!”

He nearly drops the ladle into the pot as his heart jumps into his throat.

“Jesus _ Christ_, Dustin,” Steve breathes out, “a warning would have been nice.”

“We knocked and rang the doorbell,” Dustin’s reply was careful and too knowing. Steve can feel his calculating gaze on him and he grunts in response.

“Why would you knock or ring the doorbell?” Steve shoots back, “you know you can just walk in like you always do. I _ know _ your mom teaches you manners, even if--” he stops, though, because Max brushes by with a bag full of what he guesses are the first exchange gifts. A second later, Billy steps into view.

It has been awhile, Steve realizes as he takes Billy in. He’s wearing jeans and a hoodie, his head and curls covered with it. His hands are stuffed into the pocket and his shoulders are curled forward, like he’s preemptively protecting himself. From what, Steve isn’t sure, but he thinks he understands.

“Hey, Hargrove,” Steve offers, “thanks for grabbing the kids.”

“I’m not a _ kid_!” Dustin rolls his eyes and stomps away. Steve gestures after him in mock-exasperation while looking at Billy, like, _ see what I mean_?

Billy blinks and looks from Steve to the direction Dustin stormed off in. It’s against the black of Billy’s hoodie that Steve notices how blue his eyes are, how winter has made his skin paler. Billy has freckles over the tops of his cheeks, his nose, and Steve wonders if his summer tan keeps them hidden.

“You’re staring,” Billy points out and Steve does drop the ladle this time. He fumbles and twists around as he clears his throat.

“Sorry,” Steve scratches the back of his neck while fidgeting with the handle, “do you want cocoa? It’s homemade. My nonna’s recipe. It’s super rich and better than those packets you get at the store, even though the marshmallows are good…” And Steve is rambling as his cheeks warm under Billy’s watch. “Do you want some or not, asshole?” He grumbles and he’s pleasantly surprised by the soft chuckle he gets in response.

“Sure,” Billy’s response is quiet, and despite his shoulders being hunched, his presence fills the room. 

“I’ve also got sugar cookies,” Steve grabs mugs out of the cabinet for all of them, “they’re really good dipped in the hot chocolate, you know?”

“You gotta sweet tooth?” Billy asks. He sounds like he’s teasing Steve while being genuinely curious. The flutter in Steve’s stomach makes his skin warm.

“Have you met them?” Steve asks and points toward the living room. He does like sweets, admittedly, but he made this with the kids in mind. Even if his parents were shitty at holidays, his grandparents always came through. Homemade cocoa and cookies and pies were a staple and the kids who sorta-kinda saved the world deserve to have that. 

“You willingly hang out with them,” Billy sounds amused. It makes Steve smile.

“You’re related to one,” Steve raises an eyebrow.

“Not by _ blood,_” Billy scoffs, but Steve can see he’s trying to hide a smile beneath the rim of his hood, “shut the fuck up, Harrington.”

“Language,” Eleven makes a face as she walks into the kitchen, “that is what Jim says.”

“Yeah? It’s true. It’s called English,” Billy’s response makes Steve laugh. He remembers sitting in class and hearing the same response whenever teachers got onto them about cursing.

Eleven looks contemplative and then nods, slow, like she doesn’t-quite-get-it but gets it. “I will tell Jim,” she decides and Steve watches Billy’s eyes almost pop out of his head.

“Probably not the best idea,” Billy protests and Steve’s laughter grows.

What Steve notices the most, though? The pink on Billy’s cheeks after he manages to quiet his laughter. He pours them all hot cocoa, grabs the plate of cookies, and ushers everyone into the living room.

The first exchange gifts are simple--candies and rolls of quarters for the arcade. Steve opens his gift and finds two boxes of Sour Patch Kids. They’re his favorite candy despite his habit of sucking on them so much that the roof of his mouth goes raw. He chances a look over at Billy, who has peeled his present open to find four boxes of Gobstoppers. There’s a hand written warning on the top of the boxes that reads _ ‘Warning: replacement for cigarettes, but taste way better. Sucks just like you!’ _

The small smile on Billy’s face is definitely a win.

After the wrapping paper is gathered, Steve throws on a generic Christmas movie and the kids sprawl out on the floor to watch and dip their cookies in cocoa. He and Billy settle on the couch at a comfortable distance, but eventually, Steve’s eyelids grow heavy and he nods off.

When he wakes up, he’s sprawled out on his side with his cheek on Billy’s leg, the heavy blanket that usually lays over a chair draped over his body. He panics for just a second before he recognizes the light drag of fingers over his scalp. Steve has always been a cuddler, attracted to warmth and needy for touch, especially after sex. It isn’t surprising that he migrated over to Billy, but he _ is _ surprised Billy is touching him so gently, almost like he’s scared Steve might shatter or run. Steve doesn’t. 

He closes his eyes and drifts off, tasting remnants of sugar cookies and hot cocoa.

  
  


~*~

The Second Exchange

For the second exchange night, Steve decides to teach the gang how to make Christmas candy. It’s a simple recipe, once again from his nonna, but he used to make the candy with his cousins. It was a family affair--something positive from his past that he cherishes. All of the ingredients are set out on the counters and the table--dark baking chocolate, pretzels, and candy canes. 

He’s sucking on the end of a candy cane when the gang burst through the door, bringing in a waft of cold air and snow. It scatters over the floor and the foyer rug as they stomp their feet. Steve walks over and leans against the wall as he pulls the sharpened edge out of his mouth.

“I will stab all of you if you get snow on the carpet,” he says it so sincerely while pointing his makeshift candy cane shank at them that they all pause and seem to consider it. “I mean it,” he reiterates.

What Steve doesn’t expect is the face full of snow and the woop from Dustin. After shaking it off, he blinks out the open door and sees what looks like a triumphant Billy packing together a second ball and raising an eyebrow at him.

“I’m not on the carpet,” Billy states matter-of-factly, cheeks and the tip of his nose red from the cold. His lips are curled in a barely there grin, and when Steve looks at Max, she’s almost beaming. The urge to snap at Billy dies on his tongue and he shoves his feet into his boots.

“You know,” he says casually as he steps outside, all of the kids filing in behind him, “you’re a Cali guy, Hargrove. I don’t think you’ve realized what you’ve done.”

There’s a resounding _ ooooooh _ from the group of teenagers as he bites the sharp edge off of the candy cane and pockets the rest.

Steve doesn’t fail to notice Billy compressing the snow without gloves, that he only has the hood of his hoodie, that he _ must _ be cold underneath his lack of layers. He stores the information in the back of his mind and lunges forward to grab a handful of snow.

The battle that ensues gets torn between two sides--Steve, Dustin, Will and Mike versus Billy, Lucas and Max. They only stop chucking snow when the familiar rumble of Hopper’s new sheriff's truck floats into the air. It idles just in front of the driveway and Eleven throws the door open. She’s laughing and Hopper looks exasperated but fond as she launches herself across the driveway.

Sopping wet, they all go inside and tug off hats and gloves and coats. Steve hesitates at the foyer and then reaches out to squeeze the hoodie Billy has on. Water drips between his fingers and he snorts.

“Yeah, no, you’re not keeping that on,” he shakes his head and tugs Billy by the same handful of hoodie toward the stairs. “I’ve got clothes, dumbass. Let’s go get those,” he points toward the stairs and can see Billy’s hesitation. “You are not dripping on my floor,” he cocks his hips to the side and crosses his arms over his chest, challenging, but he also knows it gives Billy an out--a _ need to _ instead of _ want to _.

Billy relents and follows him up the stairs. His steps are quiet in comparison to the heavy boots Steve remembers. Billy used to be a tornado, sucking up everything around him and spitting it out, captivating, _ dangerous _. Now? He’s still captivating, but there’s more mystery about him, more to be curious about. Steve isn’t sure which one is more alluring--the unpredictable tornado or the quiet vacuum Billy now wears like a second skin.

“Here,” Steve pulls a hoodie out of his closet and tosses it at Billy. “Wear that. I can throw your stuff in the dryer.”

When Steve turns to look at Billy again, he isn’t expecting him to not have _ anything _ on under his hoodie. Scars wrap around his ribs, his chest, along his arms. His hands. Some of them look like spiderwebs. Others look like windshields that have been hit in one place, snarled in the middle and more spaced out the further away from the center the damage gets. It makes Steve nauseous and a little lightheaded. 

Billy pulls Steve’s hoodie over his head and they disappear, like they were never there to begin with. Steve blinks out of his thoughts and breathes in through his nose, out through his mouth. Counts back from ten.

“Hargrove--”

“Don’t,” Billy looks at him, and for a split second, he sees the storm that used to light up Billy’s eyes before, a warning of thunder and lightning, “just don’t, Harrington, okay?”

Steve swallows, licks a slow line over his lips, and steps closer to Billy. He reaches up to touch the rim of the hood, where the strings fall. Instead of talking, he tugs the hood until it’s up and over Billy’s head, until he can tuck the curls back behind Billy’s ears. This close, Steve can hear Billy’s breathing, how stilted it’s become with him an inch away. Billy’s eyes drop, and Steve’s almost one hundred percent sure Billy’s looking at his mouth.

The moment breaks when Billy’s soggy, black hoodie is shoved into his face.

The first thing Steve notices is it smells like cologne and something uniquely Billy. The second is it’s cold from the snow. The third thing that grabs his attention is the pinging of Gobstoppers falling out of the pocket and onto the floor. He smiles despite the heat in his face and the fact that Billy has already fled downstairs by the time he looks up.

It doesn’t take long to throw everything into the dryer and usher everyone into the kitchen. He has the majority of them crushing candy canes while Max and Eleven melt the chocolate in a pan. He covers a couple of cookie sheets with wax paper, and with Billy’s help, they skim it with a thin layer of pretzels. As soon as the chocolate is completely melted, Steve lifts the pan and starts to coat it over the pretzels. After they’re sufficiently covered, the gang sprinkles them in as much peppermint as they want.

“You can have it after presents,” Steve picks up the pans and gives Billy another exasperated look when Dustin steals a piece and drops it into his mouth.

“You’re spoiling the children, _ sweetheart,_” Billy responds with a grin more shark like and teasing than Steve has seen since July. 

“Bite me,” Steve makes a face after sliding both trays into the fridge, “they’re also your responsibility. We’re both adults, last time I checked.”

“Me? An _ adult-_-?”

“C’mon, dickweeds. I want my _ gift_,” Max grabs Eleven’s arm and drags her toward the living room. Mike makes some annoyed comment under his breath that Will rolls his eyes at.

“Dickweeds,” Eleven echoes with a laugh and Steve groans.

“Hopper is gonna murder me,” Steve mutters

“His only babysitter? Yeah, I doubt it,” the look Billy shoots him makes Steve’s stomach warm and his cheeks flush. 

“Not all that great at it,” Steve adds as he and Billy walk toward the living room.

“Whatever you say, pretty boy,” Billy sounds unconvinced, “the chief of police isn’t just going to let anyone watch his kid.”

Billy has a point, Steve guesses. He stops thinking about it as soon as they sit on the couch and the gifts are pulled from the bag. Max hands them out, but Steve watches the gang open their presents first, a smile pulling at his lips. What he notices, almost immediately, is everyone’s present has a note with something sarcastic or smart written on it. He’s started a trend, apparently.

When Steve finally peels his own open, he bursts into laughter. 

The can of Farrah Fawcett hairspray has a note which reads: ‘_Warning: user uses enough to be flammable. Use with caution.' _

“I do _ not _ have terrible taste in music,” is what he hears Billy muttering, even if he’s flipping the tape Steve spent a hideous amount of time putting together over and over. “I swear, if this has fuckin’ _ Duran Duran _ on it…”

“Hey!” Steve mock gasps and clutches his chest, “Duran Duran is amazing!”

“And you’re allowed your _ wrong _ opinion,” Billy replies smoothly, even if the note on his tape says ‘_fix your taste in music._’ “And,” he adds as he gets up and walks over to the player Steve has out, “I’m going to torture whoever made this.”

Everyone groans.

“Anyone got earplugs?” Max asks as the music starts, Metallica drowning out the quiet of the television.

“I like it,” Eleven decides, “it’s _ bitchin_.”

“See? She likes it. End of discussion,” Billy sinks back down on the couch next to Steve, who hides his smile by sucking on the curled end of his candy cane from earlier. After one side of the tape plays through, Steve puts on another movie and sets the trays of chocolate and candy cane covered pretzels in the middle of the group. By the end of the movie, the candy is gone and the party moves to his basement for D&D.

Normally, Steve would follow, but Billy still sits on the couch next to him and he’s reluctant to leave his side. He wonders if the shadows move for Billy like they do for him or if the wind sounds like the shrieks from the tunnels. Maybe Billy sleeps with his light on, too. Maybe he wakes up paralyzed and gasping, desperately trying to scream or call for help but knowing it won't come.

“Do you want some cocoa with alcohol?” Steve asks in an effort to stop thinking, and he watches Billy perk up with relief.

“Is that even a _ question_?” Billy is already getting up. Steve follows him to the kitchen and pulls out the leftover cocoa from the day before. After reheating it, he fills half of their mugs with liqueur tasting of dark chocolate and cherries. They’re both quiet as they stand and sip the cocoa.

Eventually, it’s time for Billy to take the kids home. The quiet between them settles something deep inside of Steve. It’s warm alongside the liqueur and cocoa and chocolate covered pretzels.

For the first time in a long while, Steve sleeps without nightmares.

  
  


The Third Exchange

The snow crunches below Billy’s boots, a reminder that he’s far from California. His body aches with the cold, scars tight on his skin as the wind beats against him. But he can’t be at the house. He can’t handle another second of being in the same room with Neil, who had chosen that day to snap and snarl about the ongoing physical therapy and the disruption of their routine and Billy’s choices and lack of respect and responsibility and--

The tang of blood on his tongue and the split in his lip destroys the record of months avoiding his old man's fists. Neil’s expression after the hit was almost comical, like he had this dawning realization that he hit someone who is basically a goddamn cripple. 

Neil didn’t need to spit at him to leave like he had so many times before. He hit the ground running and now he’s midway between his place and Steve’s. It’s so fucking cold, though. He curls his fingers tighter in the pocket of the hoodie and tries to count his steps. It isn't a good enough distraction. The cold is awful in two fold. It reminds him that he’s not in Cali anymore; more jarringly, it plunges him back into ice baths and ‘it’ll all be over soon’ and ‘hold still.’

Before Billy gets to fifty steps, he’s sucking in sharp, choppy breaths and panic tears into his spine, forcing him to squat down. He settles his face into his hands and counts backward from ten. Then again. And again. His eyes sting and he fights to convince himself that it’s the cold doing it. It’s strange how he almost can’t taste the blood in his mouth anymore, how the panic vibrates his bones and fills his head with static and steals all of his senses.

The crunch of leaves nearby almost makes him vomit and that’s fucking humiliating. Every inch of Billy is consumed by fear and contempt as he opens his eyes to zero in on the shuffling. Before July, he would have ignored it. Now that he knows what goes bump in the night in this fucking place? He’s jumpy, skittish, but he can’t get his feet to move. His knees are locked in place and he’s helpless, apprehension freezing him in place as the shuffling gets closer and closer.

He’s going to die. Like, _ actually _ die this time. Billy is one hundred percent fucking certain. It doesn’t matter what Eleven said or the government said. Monsters weren’t supposed to exist in the first place. Some were in the shape of humans, like Neil, but real ones? Those were only supposed to be in fairy tales and horror movies.

Billy holds himself stiff, holds his breath, waits for the inevitable. What he doesn’t expect are the two light colored, pointed ears that pop up just beneath the brush of dead leaves. Two golden eyes follow the ears. It’s small and soaked through with snow. When it opens its mouth, the mew that it makes shatters whatever holds Billy against the ground. He stumbles forward and eases down onto his knees, wet snow seeping through his jeans as soon as his knees hit the pavement.

“What’re you doing out here?” Billy mutters. As soon as he tucks his fingers underneath the kitten’s belly, another one pops up. Blue eyes stare at his own, black fur matted down with snow. Both kittens are a mess. Each is small enough to fit in the palm of his hand, so he scoops them up and contemplates his options, before he cradles both kittens in the pocket of his hoodie.

As soon as they are huddled in his pocket, sharp, needle-like claws dig into his stomach through the thin fabric. He winces, figures they’re kneading as they warm up, and then starts his trek to Steve’s with renewed energy. Billy keeps his hands tucked into his pocket to keep the kittens from squirming out. It mostly works. He catches the gray tabby several times, who seems to be more wiggly than the black one.

By the time Billy reaches Steve’s, the gray kitten is tucked into his hood, curled around his neck with its head nestled under his jaw. The black kitten chose to stay in his pocket, cupped in both of his palms. It’s at Steve’s door that Billy finally stops and wonders what the fuck he’s doing. What is Steve going to do with kittens? What is Steve going to do with Billy here without the kids? Why the hell would he _ want _ him here?

Billy’s heart lodges into his throat. He tries to breathe through the rapid fire panic hitting each vertebrae of his spine, clouding his thoughts with ‘what if’ and ‘fuck up’ and ‘go back home.’ He knows, distantly, that it’s all bullshit. Owens told him that he needs to have a plan for when his head decides to come at him like he’s the enemy.

Trauma, Owens said.

Billy had laughed. He laughed until his whole body was wracked with sobs and he was coughing up blood and residual black goo. 

Now he’s standing in front of Steve’s door, two kittens huddled in his hoodie, looking for the one space he feels even remotely safe. He realizes that he’s like the kittens--a stray. Unwanted. But he also remembers Steve’s small smiles, how he leaned a little closer to Billy, how he was _ definitely _ on the verge of maybe kissing Billy in his room. If Billy’s cheeks aren’t already ruddy from the cold, he’s sure they are now.

Finally, Billy shuffles forward and presses the point of his elbow down onto the doorbell.

A few moments pass and then the door slips open. Steve looks sleep rumpled, hair a mess, sweats low on his hips. He has an old Hawkins High shirt on and he looks just about as confused as Billy is nervous. His expression changes, though, and he steps into Billy’s space without enough warning for Billy to step back.

“What happened to your face?” Steve demands, and there’s an edge to his voice. It takes a second for Billy to recognize it as protective. He had forgotten about the damage to his cheek and mouth, too preoccupied with the fuzzballs rattling against his neck and stomach. “Hey,” Steve startles him out of his thoughts by waving a hand in front of his face.

There’s a hiss and suddenly a set of tiny, sharp claws swat out at Steve’s hand. He jumps back with a noise of surprise and Billy stares.

Stares some more.

And then laughs. 

The look on Steve’s face is priceless, halfway between indignation and shock. He pulls his hand out of his pocket to tuck the flailing paw back behind the drawstring of his hood. “I found more strays?” Billy says, but it’s really a question, and he tongues at the split in his lower lip as he shuffles his feet. “Pretty sure my balls have frozen off,” he mutters, “it’s fucking cold as shit out here.”

Steve fumbles to push the door all the way open and gestures inside.

“Yeah, yeah, sorry, uh. Okay. Yeah. It’s cold. And your face? Don’t tell me that cat did that,” Steve eyes the hidden fuzz in Billy’s hoodie, completely unaware of the one in his pocket.

“No,” Billy muses as he steps inside and immediately toes his shoes off, “but surprise? I found them on the side of the road.” 

“_Them_?” Steve stares as Billy manages to pull his pocket just far enough for a black ear to flip out and blue eyes to blink at Steve.

“Yeah, two,” Billy rubs at the top of the black kitten’s head, between its ears, “I couldn’t leave them there.” 

“Of course not,” Steve murmurs and there’s this look in his eyes that makes Billy want to bristle. As soon as Steve smiles and offers a hand out, though, Billy relaxes and lifts the black kitten up and out of his pocket. When Steve takes it, his eyebrows pinch together. “They’re wet,” he twists around, “come on. Let’s get them dry.”

It’s sort of a mess after that. Billy and Steve end up on the floor of the bathroom, rubbing both kittens down with soft towels after a rinse in warm water until their fur fluffs up. Both swipe and hiss and scatter, but he and Steve manage to get them mostly dry. By the time the kittens are burritoed into clean, dry towels, Steve’s and Billy’s hands are covered in paper thin cuts and tiny holes where the kittens have gotten them with their teeth. 

“So,” Steve starts as he holds the black kitten inside of the white towel, “what do we do now?”

Billy falters. The tabby in his own towel is burrowing deeper, purring enough that it echoes. If he’s honest? He’d like to keep them. It feels good to take care of something, to love on it, even if he knows he can’t take either of them home. Neil wouldn’t allow it. He’s actually not sure Neil would be humane about the kittens. He adjusts the bundle in his arms and leans back against the under sink cabinet.

“I guess we can bring them to a shelter after the holidays?” Billy asks. He doesn’t know, and he certainly isn’t going to ask Steve to keep the two here in his mansion of a house where snow isn’t allowed on the carpets. It’s stupid that his lungs burn, that his throat goes tight and his eyes sting. He hears ‘pussy’ clang around in his head and laughs at the irony of it. 

The look Steve gives him is also comical.

Billy grins. “Pussies,” he points out and Steve rolls his eyes in a much more exaggerated fashion than Billy thinks is necessary.

“Christ, Hargrove,” Steve mumbles, but he’s hiding a smile until the chimes of the doorbell ring through the house. “Oh, shit. I guess the kids are here? Time flies when you’re having fun.”

“I was supposed to pick them up,” Billy drags his tongue over the split in his lip. The sting grounds him. “I guess Max got someone else to do it.”

“Probably Mrs. Henderson,” Steve stands up with the burritoed kitten in his arms, “come on. We’re making homemade pizzas tonight.”

“Spoiling us, sweetheart,” Billy lifts himself up and looks at Steve. There isn’t as much bite in ‘sweetheart’ this time, almost like Billy means it, but the grin is still there and there’s a wiggle to his eyebrows. It’s enough to make Steve roll his eyes.

“Not if I make you all do the work,” Steve grumbles as he leads Billy out of the bathroom.

The door opens and the kids tumble in, tripping over each other, voices bouncing off the walls. They sound eager, like they always do, but as soon as they see Billy and Steve with the bundles in their arms, it goes quiet.

“Are those--” Max starts, her eyes wide.

“Where did you get--” Dustin gapes.

“You were supposed to pick us up,” Mike cuts in and Billy flips him off.

“KITTENS!” It’s Eleven’s burst of giddiness that dissipates the rest of the group’s yelling. “Can I hold one? Can I play with one? Are they soft? I want to touch one!”

Billy looks at Steve who stares back at him like Billy gets to decide. Like he’s the kittens’ parent. He glances down at the bundles in their arms and thinks about the fiestiness and the cuts and bites on his hands. 

“Sure,” he ends up on, shrugging, “they probably need the exercise, anyway.”

“We should get cat supplies,” Steve hesitates before handing off his kitten burrito to Max. Billy watches and then hands his own off to Eleven. “Don’t overwhelm them,” Steve warns, “they’ve been through enough.”

Will pops up from his shoe and holds up his shoe lace. “We can use this!”

“That’s from you _ shoe_\--” Steve begins, clearly exasperated.

“That’s perfect,” Billy claps a hand over Steve’s mouth and gestures toward the living room. “You shits--”

“Shits,” Eleven repeats with a snicker as she wanders by them, a kitten in her arms.

“--be careful with them!” Billy watches, but he knows how gentle Eleven can be. He knows how caring Max can be, too, despite her sharp edges.

Steve swats until Billy pulls his hand away and gives him a look that reminds him of mothers chastising their children at the pool. He grins in the face of it and wiggles his eyebrows again.

“You’re awful,” Steve pinches the bridge of his nose, “and we need cat stuff. At least, to last through Christmas.”

Billy hesitates, but he knows he won’t win this fight. He nods and rolls his shoulders, a stupid attempt at pulling out the sudden tension in his muscles. It’s only been an hour or so and he’s attached. It hadn’t been that easy before July. Trauma, Owens had said. If Billy could, he would light the word itself on fire. 

The only way to distance himself is to put space between himself and the kittens.

“I’ll make food if you go get the stuff,” Billy offers and he’s relieved as soon as Steve nods. He doesn’t miss the way Steve looks at him or how he pauses just outside of the kitchen.

“Hargrove?” Steve asks over his shoulder.

“Yeah?” Billy props a hip against the counter and crosses his arms over his chest. He thinks about the balls of fur that are probably chasing strings.

“Don’t burn the house down,” Steve warns, but there’s amusement in his voice, “or be _ too mean _ to the shits.”

“Burn the house down and throw the kids in the pool. Got it,” Billy nods sagely, like that’s exactly what Steve had just said to him.

“If you do either of those,” Steve points, “save the kittens.”

“Definitely. Precious cargo,” Billy grins and watches Steve walk away. He tries not to think about how Steve is going to the store to buy things for kittens that he brought over. He’s also not thinking about how sweet it is, how it shows a side that Billy’s itched to see directed at him. It definitely does _ not _ warm his whole body or make his cheeks burn.

Steve isn’t gone long. By the time he returns, the pizza is nearly done in the oven and the kittens are asleep--the tabby in Eleven’s lap and the black one in Max’s. Billy tried to avoid both of them, but at one point he was doing his best not to trip over them in the kitchen as the kids chased them around the house. It’s an absolute mess of laughter and squealing and blurted cuss words as the kittens try to climb jeans and launch off of laps claws first.

Will and Dustin gladly help Steve set up the litter boxes in a corner. The toys get popped out of their bags and tossed onto the floor for later when the kittens aren’t sleeping. By the time everyone sits down with a plate and a soda, they’re all ready for the gift exchange. Eleven passes out the presents in between bites of pizza and flicks of popcorn at Mike. The kittens are still tucked in the girls’ laps, purring when they wake up at random and then settling in again.

Max is surprisingly gentle with the kitten. She scratches its head with one hand while eating pizza with the other. Eleven seems content to just eat and drink while the kitten kneads at her stomach. The guys are ripping their presents open and arguing about something involving clerics and bards. Billy watches with detached interest, but eventually pulls open his present and blinks.

The black leather is supple under his fingers, the cloth beneath it soft to the touch. He runs his hands over the fabric and unfolds the note stuck between the gloves.

_ ‘You’re not in Cali anymore, idiot. Wear some goddamn clothes._ _’ _

Billy laughs, his plate nearly toppling out of his lap. He grabs it just in time and sets it off to the side so he can lift the gloves. Below is a just-as-soft, ocean-blue beanie. He pops the tag off and pulls his hoodie down just long enough to pop the hat on. There’s a tug and when he glances over, Steve has one of his curls wrapped around one finger.

“It’s been awhile since I’ve seen these,” Steve muses and he tugs again as he grins.

The kids are in the room. Billy knows that, but it feels like everything around him and Steve drop away as he watches him. Before, he would have bitten and snarled and run from the attention. He would have said something cruel to make Steve hate him. The way his heart beats, erratic and hard in his chest, would have set him off. Now, it doesn’t.

Instead, Billy grins. “You’re just tired of lookin’ at yourself,” he throws back as Steve unravels his finger from his curl. It bounces now that it’s been coiled tight, and Billy swats at Steve’s hand as his skin prickles with heat.

When he looks at the kids, they’re still talking. Except Max. She’s watching with a knowing gaze and it makes his stomach ache and his chest feel like it’s caving in. She smiles, though, and looks away--like nothing is happening, like Billy isn’t blushing, like he isn’t obviously flustered by how comfortable Steve is with touching him. 

He’s almost too wrapped up in his own thoughts to see Steve’s face when he unwraps his present. Billy was particularly nervous about this one. It isn’t pathetic that Steve doesn’t like to have lights off around his house at night--something Billy has noticed over the last couple of days. Hell, Billy still sees backward facing legs and petal-shaped faces and tentacles with sharp, beak-like teeth when he stares into the shadows for too long.

The box of fairy lights wasn’t expensive and they certainly weren’t hard to find, but the look on Steve’s face makes it feel like Billy handed him the world in his palm. The note on the front reads ‘_For nights when we aren’t causing chaos in your house.’ _ Below is an arrow and he watches Steve flip it over.

Billy’s heart constricts when Steve’s eyes get misty. _ ‘You’re not alone_’ is what the other side says. It’s more sincere than Billy is used to being, but he thinks Steve may need to hear it in this big, empty house. He averts his attention when Steve swipes at his eyes. Making Steve uncomfortable wasn’t what he meant to do. Hell, it was like, the _ last _ thing on his to-do list.

“Uh,” Steve starts and Billy glances over, “thanks, to whoever got these.”

No one responds because that would give away who has who, but it starts a huge _ thank you _ train that lasts for maybe ten minutes. It gives Steve time to gather himself and Billy enough time to pick up plates and empty cans. Normally, Billy would snap at the kids to do it. This time, he isn’t willing to destroy whatever mood is happening. In the kitchen, Billy stares out the bay window and over the street.

“Are you okay?” comes from behind. Billy would have jumped, but he heard Steve’s shuffling steps. He thinks Steve makes himself noisy on purpose because he knows how easily Billy startles now. It’s strange how well they’ve adjusted to each other. Steve steps up beside him and leans his weight against Billy’s shoulder. In that moment, Billy knows that he would be okay if they stayed friends. It aches to think of more, and he knows he will, but this is better than the distance and tension after their fight in November.

“Shouldn’t I be asking you that, pretty boy?” Billy asks and he watches snow drift from the dark sky, lit up only by the porch light. 

“You could,” Steve agrees. His voice is quiet and it feels so private, like it’s just them.

“Are you okay?” Billy caves and bumps his shoulder against Steve’s.

“Right now?” Steve takes this big breath and exhales, like he’s expelling everything he’s held onto up until this point, “yeah, actually. I’m doing pretty fucking great. This has been… nice. You’ve really helped with the gang. Thanks for that.”

Everything Steve says is honest and sincere. Billy doesn’t quite remember the last time someone thanked him that genuinely for anything, but he’s glad it’s coming from Steve. The overwhelming sense of being important, of having a purpose, keeps Billy from talking. He makes himself nod but keeps his gaze on the snow. 

“Are you okay?” Steve echoes his earlier question and Billy licks along his lower lip, the split Neil had put in it just hours before. He thinks about the kittens and bringing them to the shelter after Christmas.

“I’m okay,” Billy decides.

“Just okay?” 

“I--” Billy stops, holds his breath as Steve hooks their pinkies together. It takes a second, maybe five, maybe ten, for his brain to process what’s happening. “I really like the kittens,” he finally admits.

“Never saw you as an animal kinda guy, Hargrove,” Steve’s other fingers are brushing Billy’s, curling, testing.

Billy can’t fucking breathe. He turns his hand just enough so their fingers slot together. Steve’s hand is soft but big in his own, warm. When Steve curls his fingers, his hand covers Billy’s. Steve squeezes.

“They are pretty cute,” Steve continues, “thing one and thing two.”

“Those aren’t _ names,_” Billy protests and Steve laughs, squeezing his hand again.

“Oh? What would you call them, genius?”

“Well, the gray cat would be Maverick,” Billy decides as he begins to brush his thumb back and forth over Steve’s.

“Why?”

“The name means free spirit,” Billy grins.

“That makes sense,” Steve bumps their shoulders together, “and the black one?”

“That’s easy. Lemmy.”

“Why?”

Billy laughs and shakes his head. “Pretty boy,” he muses, “Ian Kilmister? The lead singer of Motorhead? He’s one of the reasons metal exists.”

“Maverick and Lemmy,” Steve scrunches his nose up, “of course you’d come up with those. I was thinking like Smokey and Midnight.”

“You… you’d name the cats because of their fur?” Billy’s grin widens as Steve cheeks pink.

“It makes _ sense_, okay?”

“Making sense doesn’t mean it’s _ good _.”

“Here I was, going to offer you a damned drink--”

“No, wait, okay. Midnight and Smokey don’t suck but it’s Maverick and Lemmy,” Billy tightens his hold on Steve’s hand and then pulls until he can press his lips to the line of Steve’s knuckles. Their eyes meet and Steve smiles. It’s soft and sweet. It’s the smile Billy watched him give Wheeler before their break up. 

Steve is smiling for him, because of him. It makes Billy wonder if he really is the monster that he’s convinced himself he is.

“Let’s get you that drink,” Steve offers with a smile and he begins to pull away.

“Wait--” Billy tugs him back into his own space and looks over Steve’s face. It’s quiet, the low hum of conversation from the kids in the background. Steve looks at him and tilts his head, a silent question, a ‘what’ without it being asked. Billy remembers the last time he kissed a boy--underneath a pier, waves coming in around their calves. The kiss tasted like salt and sun and freedom.

Billy wonders what Steve tastes like.

“Thank you,” he says, instead of leaning in and stealing the kiss that he aches for, “for grabbing the cat stuff.” For everything--the dinners and hot cocoa and cookies and the safety he hasn’t felt in years.

The smile grows on Steve’s face, bright and welcoming. 

“No problem, Billy.”

His name on Steve’s tongue is like melted sugar on Billy’s, sweet and tacky all at once. He feels like he can taste it and regrets not kissing Steve, for creating the distraction he needed to gather himself. As soon as they part to get drinks, Maverick skitters into the kitchen and slides on the tiles, followed by Lemmy who tackles him into one of the kitchen chairs.

It’s a playful ball of fur and needle sharp claws and pointy teeth. Billy and Steve stay to the side, drinking their beers. The kids don’t immediately fly in, so they’re either watching television or giving them space. Which, Billy thinks, is suspicious.

Really fucking suspicious.

When Billy glances at Steve, at his smile and the way he watches the kittens wrestle on the floor, he stops thinking about it. He hooks two fingers into Steve’s belt loop and tugs him close to his side. Billy allows himself to just enjoy that moment with Steve and the kittens and the knowledge that he’s made Steve’s nights a little brighter with the fairy lights.

The Final Exchange

The last day of switching presents comes too quickly. Billy isn’t ready to stop visiting Steve. He isn’t ready for the absence of hot cocoa or random, homemade snacks and treats. The idea of facing snow and the cold of Indiana without the exchange around the corner seems daunting. His recent appointment with the doctor was a lot about routines and creating some type of normal.

How is Billy supposed to create normal when nothing about him is normal? The scars aren’t normal. Him liking boys isn’t normal. His temper isn’t normal. His fear of sounds and sleeping isn’t normal. Abso-fucking-lutely nothing is normal about him, and that’s what he had wanted to spit at the doctor. The faster he acted normal, though? The faster he got out of the office. 

It’s also two days until actual Christmas and the only reason Billy could afford any gifts at all is because of what the government calls a ‘stipend’ or something as a result of ‘emotional and physical trauma’ caused by opening whatever hell-portal let that thing through. As long as Billy keeps his mouth shut, he’ll continue to get the money. The amount is good, though, and he figures he’ll get a car soon enough and then he can get the hell out of Neil’s house.

The Mindflayer may have ripped just about everything out of him, but Billy’s still vindictive enough to want to succeed just to throw it in Neil’s face. 

“You excited for the last present?” Max asks from the passenger seat of his dad’s truck. The only reason Billy is allowed to even touch this thing is because Billy carts her and the sheriff's daughter around like a good kid. There may also be some actual shame for hitting Billy the day before. 

It doesn’t matter. What does matter is the last present that had burned a hole in Billy’s pocket. The amount that it cost him isn’t what makes him nervous. Steve could say no. He could definitely throw it in Billy’s face, but Steve doesn’t seem like the type. Fuck, they held hands yesterday. Billy is still reeling from that. 

“Yeah,” Billy finally answers as he slows to a stop in front of Henderson’s. “Max,” he adds, a slow drawl as he leans back and slings his arm over the head rest of Max’s seat. “You wouldn’t happen to know anything about this whole Secret Santa shit, would you?”

“About what?” Max looks at him and raises both eyebrows, “Jane came up with the idea.”

“And the whole name picking,” Billy presses his free hand against the horn to make Henderson hurry the hell up, “was random. You said it was.”

“Yep,” Max pops the p. “Why? You gotta problem with your gifts?”

Billy doesn’t. Not at all, in fact. He’s sure, though, by the way Max is responding, that there’s something going on. He could pry. He could pull the ‘but I almost died!’ card. There are several ways that he could needle it out of Max. He finds that he doesn’t want to. If Max and those little shits planned all of this, it means Steve wasn’t put up to anything. It means that whatever is going on between them is real.

“No problem at all,” Billy decides and he ruffles the top of Max’s head, makes sure to mess up her hair. Max slaps at him until he pulls away. A second later, the doors swing open and the rest of the gang piles into the truck. The conversation bouncing around is, once again, centered around rogues and druids and something called a paladin. Billy ignores all of it and drives to the other side of town.

Knowing Steve actually looks forward to seeing him makes Loch Nora not so intimidating. Wealth has always set Billy’s teeth on edge. Money buys shit. Neil proved that in Cali the last time he beat Billy enough to get someone’s attention. Billy learned the hard way that cops could be paid off. Add the fact that he’s queer on top of it? They’ll gladly sweep it under the rug. 

“Jim would not allow that,” Jane says as she leans forward between the two front seats.

“Jane,” Billy chastises, “no snooping.”

“Not allow what?” Max says and Billy appreciates how hard her voice is. It’s protective, which is almost cute to hear from her. He thinks Neil would shit himself if he knew Max fought monsters bigger and badder than him.

“That’s for me to know and for you to never find out,” Billy shoots Max a grin, even with the way she punches him in the shoulder. He never thought he’d like her. At least, not to this extent, but she has more balls than just about any guy he knows and she doesn’t put up with shit. She’s fierce and he feels sort of bad for Lucas.

“She can always dump his ass,” Jane points out far too proudly.

“What!?” The shriek from the back makes Billy wince, but Max and Eleven begin laughing and it’s nice, a facsimile of normal. “Why!? I didn’t do anything!”

The conversation continues, but Billy finds himself zoning out as he drives. The shitty part is that he’s anxious. He wants Steve to like the final gift, but it could also be too much. It could be too forward. 

Before he manages to come up with a response to Steve’s possible rejection, Billy pulls into the driveway and parks the car. The kids jump out first and Billy follows, quiet and apprehensive. He shoves his hands into his hoodie pocket, but the gloves have kept them warm enough that he doesn’t need to.

The kids don’t even knock. They push the door open and trip over each other trying to get inside.

“What if I was naked!?” Billy hears from inside, “what then, huh?! You’d all be _ traumatized_!”

Billy bites his lower lip in a ruined effort to keep from laughing. He only manages to muffle some of it before he steps inside and uses his elbow to close the door.

“Can’t say that I’d mind,” he says it just to see the kids’ reactions. They look at him, but there’s a lack of surprise that just confirms his suspicions about this whole thing being orchestrated behind the scenes. Shitheads. 

“You’re the exception,” Steve mumbles and then he’s disappearing into the kitchen. Billy follows, breaking away from the group so he can join Steve in the kitchen.

“What’re you making tonight, pretty boy?” Billy props his hip up against the counter and crosses his arms over his chest.

“Uh,” Steve stares at the stove. Billy watches him blush and wonders what’s happened to make Steve be embarrassed about cooking. “Well, my nonna taught me a lot. She’s Italian. My mom was always gone, so we got really close. This is Bucatini with butter roasted tomato sauce,” Steve gestures at the pan.

“It smells great,” Billy unravels his arms and steps up behind Steve. His chest almost touches Steve’s back as he hooks his fingers into Steve’s belt loop at his side and holds on. “Didn’t know you could cook like this. I’d have used the ‘I almost died’ card a long time ago.”

Steve snorts, but he leans back against Billy’s chest. It’s a good, solid weight. It leaves Billy a little breathless, somewhat off-kilter. 

“That is probably the best card you could play,” Steve reasons, “but you could also use the ‘I saved the whole fucking town and probably the world’ card, too.”

“Yeah. That’s me. Real martyr,” Billy squeezes Steve’s hip, “I also killed a lot of people.”

“Don’t,” Steve drops the spoon and twists around so quickly that Billy loses grip and almost stumbles back to keep from being stepped on, “don’t say that. You didn’t kill anyone, Billy. It was that fucking thing, and you saved Eleven. You saved us. I watched you have nightmares in the hospital. I know you’re not a monster.”

Billy stares at Steve and the only way he can describe how he feels is unbalanced, like the floor is rocking left to right under his feet. He’s going to collapse, maybe. The doctor had said something similar to him, but Billy hadn’t believed him. He had laughed, and then coughed up black goo and started panicking all over again. Now? His whole body is warm but not in a way that makes him want to shatter into pieces that are too sharp to put back together.

“Steve--” Billy breathes his name out, “Heather and her parents and--”

It’s unique, how panic works. His vision begins to tunnel and his lungs feel like his ribs are curling around them and squeezing like fists. Logically, they can’t. Logically, he should be able to breathe in through his nose and out through his mouth like a normal goddamn person. But at that moment, all Billy can do is suck sharp, painful breaths through his teeth.

_ Please not in front of him not in front of him not in front of please-- _

Billy squats down and digs his elbows into his knees. He drops his head between his arms and hooks his fingers over the back of his skull. Steve is in front of him, kneeling, and then Steve’s hands are on his face. They’re soft and warm and Billy tries so hard to concentrate on that and not the way his body shakes.

“Breathe,” Steve tilts his face up and catches his eyes. Steve’s are brown and endless and so, so full of something Billy can’t quite place. He isn’t used to people looking at him like that. Instinctively, he wants to recoil. He wants to run, bolt, snarl. But he can’t get up and he can’t stop staring at Steve like he’s his only life preserver in the middle of a hurricane he brewed all on his own. 

“You’re okay,” Steve murmurs, “come back to me, okay? I’m right here. It’s okay. We’re about to have a delicious Italian dish right after gifts and I bet your secret Santa got you something _ awesome. _So, come back to me so we can have presents and a beer and watch those nerds play games.”

It’s getting easier to breathe. Billy’s vision isn’t being eaten away by darkness at the edges and he can almost count to three with each breath instead of just sucking in air in useless bursts. 

“See?” Steve’s voice is so fucking soft and his thumbs are brushing across Billy’s cheeks. “There we go. Look at you,” he smiles and it’s sweet and warm and not at all what Billy deserves. Not after what he did. Billy swallows, swallows again, swallows a third time. “No, nope, no, eyes on me, babe. Yeah, see? There. Hi. Have I told you how blue your eyes are? Because they are _ very _ blue. Pretty, I guess, is what I’m saying. You call me pretty boy and, like, you’re the one with the blue eyes and curls? So, I think you’ve got it mixed up.”

Steve is rambling and Billy has to concentrate to follow him, and perhaps that’s what Steve wanted. It makes it easier to breathe, to think, like Steve knew that rambling would pull him out of whatever spiral his brain went down. He finally closes his eyes and takes a breath that he can feel in the bottom of his lungs. When he can feel his cheeks again, where Steve’s fingers are stroking, Billy turns his head and brushes his mouth against Steve’s palm.

“I’m good,” Billy’s voice is rough, almost raw, but he presses another barely there kiss against Steve’s palm. Steve doesn’t get up. He settles onto his ass, gets a good grip on Billy’s shirt, and pulls him forward. Billy is basically manhandled into Steve’s arms without a fight. They sit like that, curled together on the kitchen floor, for what seems like ages. It’s long enough for Billy to come back down, for his breathing to even out and his hands to shake less.

“Ready for presents?” Steve asks, his voice soft and private, “if you need more time, you can lay down in my room. I’m sure they won’t mind.”

Billy shakes his head. He’s fine. He has to be. The doctor said normal, and Billy’s normal isn’t this.

“I have them,” Steve squeezes once, “panic attacks, I mean. They used to be bad. I’ve gotten better. You can, too, you know?”

“It gets easier?” Billy breathes out and he regrets asking almost immediately. It’s vulnerability he isn’t used to showing, a rawness that burns.

“Yeah,” Steve holds him tighter and presses a kiss against his temple, the kind Billy hasn't had since he was a kid. “It’s easier when you’ve got people, too.”

“Not sure if those shitheads are people,” Billy mutters, but he’s watched them face monsters that would have sent everyone else running. 

“They’re definitely trouble,” Steve laughs and he kisses Billy’s temple again, “most of those terrible ideas came from them.”

“And the secret Santa?” Billy sits up a little straighter and glances at Steve over his shoulder, “was that a terrible idea?”

Steve looks like he considers the question and then shoves Billy’s shoulder. “No, dickhead,” he looks close to rolling his eyes, “now come on. Let’s open our gifts.”

Billy lifts himself off the floor and helps Steve up. He takes two beers and some Cokes out for the kids while Steve flips the stove off to cool the food. There's a gentle clatter of dishes when Steve sets them down. After Billy watches Steve arrange dinner, they both wander into the living room.

“We already exchanged,” Max states matter-of-factly, “you two are slow.”

“That’s rude,” Steve exhales and pinches the bridge of his nose as Billy passes the cokes out. 

“It’s just you two left, anyway,” Mike shrugs and yelps when Eleven punches him in the shoulder, “what!? They were going to figure it out, anyway!”

It isn’t surprising that one of them set this up. That’s what Billy’s thinking about when the kids start to argue, going back and forth about spoilers and secrets and taking the joy out of things.

“Hey, _ hey_!” Steve’s voice booms over the chatter, “if you’re all done, go into the basement. Take dinner with you.”

“But--”

“Come on--”

“Do we gotta--”

“Go!” Steve points, “go play your DMV game or--”

“DMV? That’s the place--”

“You get your license!”

“It’s D&D. Jesus _ Christ_\--”

“Out!” Steve jabs toward the door to the basement and finally, the kids pull themselves up and trudge to the door. 

“Damn good babysitter,” Billy comments with a grin as he watches the group disappear downstairs, “and pretty decent--_fuck__-_-” he laughs, cut off by Maverick’s claws as he climbs up his leg and claims Billy’s lap. Lemmy is close behind him, using the fabric of the couch as a way to climb up and up until he can tuck himself on top of Billy’s shoulder, into the crook of his neck.

“They like you,” Steve settles down next to Billy and it’s a comfortable silence, those next few minutes. They spend it petting the kittens and sipping their beer. Like they don’t have presents to exchange. Like it isn’t the most anxious either of them have felt in ages.

“I like _ you_,” Billy points out quietly before he can stop himself. Almost immediately, he wants to bite his tongue off or bolt. Running away isn’t an option when he has two sleeping kittens on him. Running away is also not an option when he has a car full of kids he has to take home at the end of the night.

“I couldn’t tell,” Steve shoots him this sure-of-himself grin that makes Billy laugh.

“Asshole,” Billy nudges Steve’s ankle with his foot and then clears his throat. “So, the presents…” He digs into his pocket and pulls out an envelope. His address on Old Cherry Road is on the front, the sender from California. After running his fingers over the envelope, he hands it to Steve. 

Billy uses the kittens as a distraction while Steve opens his gift. He pets their tiny heads and scratches just behind their ears. 

“Holy shit,” Steve’s voice sounds like a mixture of shock and excitement, “holy shit. Holy _ shit _. Billy.” He’s holding the tickets in his hands when Billy looks over. “Duran Duran in California? Los Angeles? Seriously? How are we going to manage that?”

This is the part Billy was dreading. Obviously, California is a significant drive away, even if it’s one of Steve’s favorite bands. It’s sort of a two-fold: a gift and a question.

“Wanna go on a road trip in July, pretty boy?” Billy grins in spite of the uncertainty rolling through his gut. “Thought we could use a change in scenery, you know? I can take you to the west coast. Give you a tour of my old stomping grounds?” He doesn’t say that he’d like to kiss Steve with the ocean at their feet and the sun on their skin. He doesn’t say that he wants to know what California looks like on Steve or what salt water will do to his already ridiculous hair. 

Billy doesn’t say any of that, but maybe his face does because Steve is watching him with a fondness that he isn’t used to. 

“That’d be great,” Steve’s cheeks start to turn colors as he picks up a wrapped gift and fiddles with it, “but mine isn’t… I mean, mine isn’t that great? It isn’t big or anything.” He doesn’t know how relieved Billy is. How he feels like he can breathe all over again after Steve agreed to go to Cali with him.

“Steve,” Billy scoffs and reaches out, holds his hand open and wiggles his fingers, “give it.”

“But--”

“Give it.”

“_Ugh_. Fine.”

Billy takes the poorly wrapped present. It isn’t heavy and it sounds like there’s something like a chime or a bell in it. He gives Steve a curious look and then pulls it open. There’s a blue cloth inside, folded in layers. As he peels them back, the jingling becomes sharper, prettier. When he finally gets to the source, Billy pauses and stares.

There are two collars--one gold and one blue--with small tags dangling off of them beside little bells. One collar has MAVERICK etched in, the other LEMMY. The letters are silver against a deep blue background. The metal is smooth to the touch, pretty.

“You really like them,” Steve offers quietly, “and it isn’t like my parents are gonna be around enough to care? And I plan on getting a place soon, anyway, so I thought… they could stay with me. And eventually you could get out of that fucking house…”

And it’s a lot. All of it is a lot. Billy keeps running his thumb back and forth over Maverick’s tag.

“And,” Steve adds, “don’t be mad. I _ know _ I totally wrecked your car. But I also. I sorta--I had someone cut out a panel of your car to make their tags. I found it in the scrap yard.” Billy’s eyes are suddenly burning, stinging, and he tries blinking it away as he continues to stare at the tags. “I also got, uh. I got these--” Steve keeps talking and Billy thinks he’s going to fall apart, but not in a bad way. He’s always barely held on since July, desperately grabbing at the edges of his sanity and holding them together with the help of alcohol and books.

He feels untethered, and for the first time, Billy doesn’t know if it’s a bad thing.

“I got these,” Steve holds out a Christmas themed gift bag. Billy looks at him, looks at the bag, looks at him, and swallows. He sets the collars down and reaches out to take the bag. When he picks the objects out, he feels light headed, dizzy, overwhelmed.

Steve had apparently managed to get the emblem from the front of the Camaro, the centerpiece of the steering wheel, and the gear shift knob. Billy holds them together in his hands and isn’t quite sure what to do with his face or his voice or just about any part of his body. Steve thought so fucking deeply about this gift that Billy can’t speak. He can barely process any of the thoughts bouncing around in his head.

When Billy blinks, he sees dark splotches appear on the knob and realizes he’s crying. “Fuck,” he mutters, “fuck.”

“I didn’t mean to upset--” Steve starts and Billy laughs.

“You didn’t upset me,” Billy sets the Camaro’s remains onto his lap, beside Maverick, and grabs Steve’s shirt. He hauls him close and tips to press their mouths together. Kissing Steve is exhilarating, even if it isn’t deep or particularly demanding. “Christ. It’s perfect.”

“Kinda like you?” Steve’s teasing him and Billy laughs again. He presses his forehead against Steve’s. 

“Far from perfect, Stevie,” Billy murmurs, “but if you’ll have me, I guess I’m pretty good.”

They kiss again, and it’s slow and sweet and soft and everything Billy thought kissing Steve would be like.

It’s perfect.

  
  
  


~~~

Can I tell you something just between you and me?  
When I hear your voice, I know I'm finally free  
Every single word is perfect as it can be  
And I need you here with me  
When you lift me up, I know that I'll never fall  
I can speak to you by saying nothing at all  
Every single time, I find it harder to breathe  
'Cause I need you here with me

  
Every day  
You're saying the words that I want you to say  
There's a pain in my heart and it won't go away  
Now I know I'm falling in deep  
'Cause I need you here with me  
I think I see your face in every place that I go  
I try to hide it, but I know that it's gonna show  
Every single night, I find it harder to sleep  
'Cause I need you here with me

  
Can I tell you something just between you and me?  
When I hear your voice, I know I'm finally free  
Every single word is perfect as it can be  
'Cause I need you here with me

**Here With Me  
Marshmello**

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] Here With Me](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23013124) by [socknonny](https://archiveofourown.org/users/socknonny/pseuds/socknonny)


End file.
